Ileil didn’t know how to answer Dorias’s words.
If she could, how she wanted to tell this saint—that it was Gro who personally killed Isende.
But reason restrained Ileil from doing so.
Letting Dorias know the truth about Isende’s death, besides making Ileil feel a bit better in her heart, had no benefit for her whatsoever.
Ileil’s identity was a witch, and Gro was helping her keep this secret.
If Dorias learned the truth and went to confront Gro—what if Gro directly revealed Ileil’s witch identity? Then things would become uncontrollable.
Moreover… she still had the contract with Gro in place. Informing the saint of the truth that Gro killed her father would also count as ‘detrimental to Gro’s interests.’ Although Ileil wasn’t afraid of the consequences of forcibly defying the contract, revealing the truth in this situation was by no means a wise move.
“My father… died eight years ago at the hands of old enemies who were pursuing him. Later…… Gro took me in.”
The moment this lie came out, Ileil felt a stab of pain in her heart. She bit her lip, forcing herself to appear calm.
Dorias was silent for a long time, the saint’s sharp gaze seeming to pierce through her disguise.
“Is that so….”
He sighed softly, “My condolences, Miss Ileil.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dorias.”
Dorias was undoubtedly a good person; Ileil could see that. Even though, according to the saint, the him from twenty years ago had nearly executed her defeated father with his own hands, she could understand Dorias’s position standing on the opposite side of Kastit.
The firelight in the fireplace gradually weakened, and the room was left with only the light crack of the charcoal burning out. Ileil stared at the gold coin that Gro had thrown to her not long ago, and finally put that coin back into her pocket.
“Thank you for telling me these things, about my father.”
Dorias nodded slightly, his saintly robe making a slight rustling sound as he stood up. “It’s getting late; you should rest.” His gaze swept over the pitch-black night outside the window,
“Don’t forget, you have morning training with Her Highness Prinshitt tomorrow early.”
……
The doubts in her heart grew even stronger, and she called out to the saint who was about to leave the reception room:
“Please wait a moment, Mr. Dorias…… May I take up a bit more of your time?” Ileil’s voice was a bit strained,
“You said earlier… that Gro back then, to save my father, voluntarily confessed information?”
The saint’s gray-blue eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes. Although that information… later proved to be insignificant.” He paused and continued:
“But his attitude at the time was very clear—trading himself for your father’s life. This simply doesn’t seem like something the arrogant and warlike ‘Black Edge’ from back then could do.”
This answer made Ileil’s chest feel stuffy, and for a moment she couldn’t accept this fact.
Father and Gro… they were actually comrades before…
Ileil suddenly recalled what Gro had said to her before parting. Now she understood why Gro knew about her father’s teachings to her.
Since Gro and her father had such deep camaraderie, why did he personally kill her father eight years ago?
Was it because a rift formed in their relationship?
Or… did Gro reach an agreement with someone, and ultimately backstab her father?
Or perhaps… Gro killed her father while bearing some unspeakable hardship?
……
Complicated thoughts surged in the girl’s mind, and she recalled the ‘memory’ she saw when touching the black feather tonight, where Gro unhesitatingly sold her out to the heretics—he could even shamelessly take advantage of Ileil’s amnesia, continuing to use her, who had become a witch, as a tool without batting an eye.
Gro’s image split into two completely different shadows in her mind—
One was the father-killer she was familiar with: always wearing a carefree smile, saying the cruelest words in a frivolous tone. The executioner who could mercilessly thrust a long sword into his comrade’s chest, the betrayer who sold her to the heretics for personal gain.
But the Gro in Dorias’s mouth was a warrior who could go to his death for his comrade, a fool who would rather bear infamy to protect his oath.
Ileil couldn’t distinguish.
She couldn’t tell which one was the real Gro.
“I understand… Mr. Dorias.” In the end, she just said that, her voice dry and unlike her own.
Ileil hadn’t understood the so-called ‘truth’ at all.
“Miss Ileil.” Dorias walked to the door, and at the last moment before leaving, he slowly said:
“No matter how your father died… remember, a warrior’s honor lies not in the manner of death, but in what he fought for.”
With that, the saint’s figure disappeared around the corner of the corridor, his footsteps gradually fading away.
The last spark in the fireplace extinguished, and the room plunged into darkness. Moonlight slanted in from the window, casting shadows of the window frames on the floor, like the bars of a cage.
“Liar…” she whispered to the empty room, but didn’t know who she was cursing.
Was it the black-haired witch who fabricated false memories?
Or the Gro who was full of lies but taught her to read and wield a sword?
Or perhaps… herself, who would rather live in hatred than think about the truth?
She remembered when Gro taught her chess, deliberately conceding, but reversing the situation at the last moment;
She remembered always mocking her mistakes in training with cold sarcasm, but always having someone bandage her wounds;
She remembered what Gro said when teaching her swordsmanship: “Hatred is the purest motivation for human growth, but it is also easy to lead people to extremes.” At that time, his eyes were obscure and unclear, as if looking at someone else through her.
The scenes in her memory suddenly flashed back—that winter when she was twelve, her first attempt to assassinate Gro. When the dagger pierced his shoulder, that man was actually laughing. Blood dripped down his black leather armor, but he said indifferently:
“Way too slow, kid. Even if I let you hit me, you couldn’t hurt me much.”
The night wind blew the curtains in the reception room, bringing the fragrance of night roses from the courtyard. Two years ago flashed before her eyes like a lantern show—the morning she woke up after becoming a witch, Gro sitting by the sickbed, clutching blood-stained bandages in his hand. Sunlight shone on his face through the gaps in the tent, that face always with a frivolous smile, at that moment tired like an old man.
Could it be… that this tiredness was also his disguise?
…….
Her heart pounded violently in her chest, and Ileil suddenly stood up. The chair scraped against the floor with a piercing screech. She needed air, needed to escape this room that trapped her deep in the quagmire of memories.
Ileil rushed to the door, breathing in fresh air deeply at the edge of the corridor. The wind without temperature scraped over, blowing away the stray hairs on her forehead. The girl gazed into the distance; she could vaguely see the lights of the temporary camp on the hillside.
She squeezed out intermittent words from her throat, her voice hoarse.
“Bastard…… what kind of person… are you really……”